


Into the Night

by einteufelimengelskreis



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slurs, it would be nightangel but it didn't get chance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:16:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8096485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/einteufelimengelskreis/pseuds/einteufelimengelskreis
Summary: What if Warren couldn't be helped...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Song reference: “Dead in This House” by my beloved band, IAMX.

_“You’re in the dark_   
_Just you and anger_   
_Your oldest friend_   
_Your closest lover”_

It’s quiet.

It happens rarely - such silence, with no music around or at least in the headphones. No music to resonate with his feelings, to relieve the anger, to drown the sorrow, to bust up the excitement. It happens rarely, but when it does, it means the darkness has reached its limit and the loneliness is so vast that even music - his best friend - will not be able to understand him this time.

So here comes the silence.

The silence of the roof in the middle of the night, of the starless sky, as black as his thoughts, of the cold wind, smacking his skin and making him shiver, but it’s okay. He welcomes this coldness, he embraces it, because it strangely suits the one he has inside, creeping from the chest and grabing him by the throat, the inner coldness making him undeserving of the slightest beam of warmth, as if some evil queen from a fairy tale put a block of ice in his heart.

The silence of voiceless weeps, shaking his arms and salty tears going down his cheeks.

The silence of the feathers, being plucked out violently by his trembling fingers, the stabbing pain bringing certain yet shortlasting relief, when the brain concentrates more on the sharp pinch in a wing than on the dull ache in his chest. What a bitter irony - he was so happy at first, when they started to grow back and now he tears them out mercylessly, one by one. He would be able to bare his whole wing like that and only the thought of grounding himself as a result prevents him from doing so.

Then, what’s new? No beauty, no good stays with him, because he values none. He destroys everything.

Why didn’t he manage finally to destroy himself? He tried so hard. Alcohol, drugs, cage fighting, living on the edge brought to maximum, yet he was still standing, as some living joke, a personified abomination to the very idea of an angel.

_“You keep seeing those dancing stars_   
_They’re all just idiots and whores_   
_You cannot trust_   
_The world’s just trouble_   
_Any chance you get – destroy_   
_Take everything back to the start”_

To believe in Devil, Warren would have to believe in God, yet it was indeed as if Devil found him to reclaim a soul belonging to him long time. En Sabah Nur possessed him but he eagerly succumbed. And he fell. Just like Lucifer, but instead fire and brimstone, he found rescue.

Bur rescue does not equal salvation.

Not for such lost, damned causes like him.

At first he was recovering, weak and fragile like a nestling. And then his wings started to grow back, through the metal, through the blades, like a real sign of rebirth, of resurrection, one might say.

Kurt. Kurt was repeating it a lot, with his wide, fangy smile and happy sparkles shining in the red eyes. Kurt was escorting him, showing him around, talking with him, joking with him. Warren suspected it was just some sleazy catholic remorse for breaking his wing but he could as well use some company.

After some time he started to enjoy it. After some time he even started to believe in all of that rebirth shit.

Fucking moron.

At first, he believed in it, even when the bullying started. He experienced too much to give a fuck about bunch of kids trying to insult him. Some harmless punches, some wing spreading, some curse words they would never suspect to exist and they would shut up after all.

But then came the nightmares. Oh, the nightmares…

Devil coming back for him with all the hell loose, the fall, the fire, the skin burning and melting, the smoke filling up his nose, mouth and eyes… The voice speaking to him in his brain, burning no less than the fire, controling and erasing his identity.

One night was bearable. A week was bearable. Two weeks of sleep deprivation were too much. He started to be agressive with those kids. Like really agressive. One time he stopped himself in the very last moment. Other time, Kurt did this. He shot him this worried look, but he kept babbling about hope and rebirth.

But eventually he had to stop.

Because to avoid hurting others, Warren needed to hurt himself. And nothing worked better than his old, good shenanigans with shiny bottles and dirty bars, when he could drink as much as to make himself pass out to the comfy darkness with no dreams and just in case he happened to have some anger managment problems, there was always a friendly face to welcome some punches. Or a friendly fist to lull him to sleep. All of this kept the nightmares away.

_“Kick down the door_   
_Kick through the pain_   
_You’ve been crawling up the wall_   
_Everybody is dead in this house”_

The only problem was, that when he was waking up, to vomit and blood, he hated himself even more than before.

Kurt tried to talk to him. Xavier tried to talk to him. At some point even Magneto tried to talk to him. But he was deaf already. Deaf and dead.

_“Kick down the door_   
_Kick through the pain_   
_You never wanted to be born_   
_Everybody is dead in this house”_

The ultimatum given by the Professor didn’t impress him at all. They will kick him out or maybe he won’t come back by himself one night, what’s the difference? However, one day a thing happened to bring him around like a bucket of ice-cold water.

He woke up, hangovered and aching, with a blank, black hole in his head. He could barely move, especially his left wing hurt. He didn’t worry too much, as he probably got into a fight again, particularly ferocious this time, but then he noticed he wasn’t alone.

Curled up at the foot of his bed slept Kurt, clutching in his hand a scrap of bandage. Something in his face worried Warren and when he looked closer, he noticed his cut lip and black eye.

He didn’t think in this moment. He just jumped at his feet and grabed hold of Kurt, swearing to all nonexisting gods that if he had done this - not realising in alcoholic stupor who was with him, that it was Kurt and what he was doing - if this was his fault, the fault he didn’t remeber now but which was no lesser because of this, oh, then he is going to throw himself from the roof, with his wings fold tight.

It wasn’t his fault. Not directly, at least. Warren was listening petrified when Kurt told him as he had searched for him and finally had found him, shitfaced and in the middle of a fight - or rather his ass being beaten up by a gang who particularly hadn’t wanted to share a drinking place with some mutey feathered faggot.

Saving him wasn’ the easiest thing this time but Kurt’s teleporting skills were a clear asset and he finally got them out of the trouble. And then spent the rest of the night nursing Warren’s wounds.

The relief vanished as soon as it appeared. It was his fault. It didn’t matter it wasn’t made with his own hands, still, he caused it. And a feeling occured, totally strange and equally horrifying - that he’s not dragging only himself to hell, but he may be dragging others behind him.

And it was too much. Something broke in him, some dam collapsed. After Kurt left, convinced somehow to get some proper rest in his own bed, Warren couldn’t sit in one place, walking around the room like a caged animal, unsuccessfully trying to escape guilt, shame, fear and disgust, clinging to him like leeches, fully awaken after weeks of buring them deep inside, ready to bury him instead.

He opened the window, having troubles to breath.

And finally he has found himself on this cold, lonely roof, crying like a baby, tweaking compulsively his damned feathers, this blatant mockery that deceived him and others around him, that he could be a real angel. They made others believe in him, in his rebirth, they made others protect him, stand for him… Get hurt for him.

He wipes down his tears and angrily throws in the air a handful of plucked feathers. They quickly disappear into the night.

He gets up on his feet. He won’t be waiting till the dawn. East Berlin is not the only place where mutant fights take place. He heared some rumours from shady people in shady bars. Such a trope is better than none. He won’t be taking anything with himself. It’s better not to own. It’s better not to be owned.

And he will never admit to himself that he cried so much because of the longing already gripping him tightly. Partly, because he’s not sure what kind of feeling is that, but he knows he wants to forget it as soon as possible.

Then he disappears into the night.

_“Kick down the door_   
_Kick through the pain_   
_You never wanted to be born_   
_Everybody is dead in this house“_


End file.
